Born Confused (42 page)

She reached right past me and took Karsh’s arm.

—I don’t know all your friends yet, and I figured you already celebrated with them, so I invited mine, she smiled.—Happy birthday! Are you surprised?

We both nodded, dumbfounded.

—It’s your birthday? I said to Karsh.

—Well, yeah. It was yesterday, actually. Great memory, Gwyn.

He looked deeply moved. Now I felt awful. I hadn’t done a thing, or brought a thing, other than my empty alibi pot and bag of briquettes. And as we entered the house and I began to make out all
the gifts and flowers and bottles blooming upon the hearth as if spilled from an early Santa sack, I felt even worse.

—Gwyn, why didn’t you tell me? I whispered, leaning in to her ear.

—I wanted it to be a surprise, she smiled, not into my ear and still focused on Karsh. And then we were in the living room.

I said my heys, stumbling upon Trilok (Jimmy) Singh farther back in the room, and Tamasha, too, whose feline green eyes were spiraling over the stack of records in the corner.

—Hey—Tree, Shy! My peeps, cried Karsh, catching up to me.—Dimple, you’ve met Shailly, right? Gwyn, you are just too much. How can I ever thank you?

—You’ll find a way, she smiled. She placed a beer in his hand, holding it longer than necessary I thought.

I was walking in a daze. The house didn’t look like the one I knew and had known for so many years. Furniture had been muscled out of the way; mirrored throw pillows decorated the floor, and candles, candles created a seriously romantic fire hazard everywhere you turned.

A buffet was set up at the end of the room, covered in deep dishes. At the far side of the pushed-together tables was a cooler and the sewing cabinet, opened to reveal the minibar inside—which everyone had clearly already been raiding. I took a beer to have something to hold on to, but to tell the truth, I was a little scared to drink. I’d already seen the sad side of the cup before and I no longer trusted myself to maintain a grip under pressure. When I turned, Trilok (Jimmy) Singh was right behind me, and clinked me in a wordless toast.

And then I noticed the most impressively altered part of the room. Gone was the TV area: Gwyn had transferred the entire
stereo system from her mother’s all-white bedroom here. And was I already seeing double? Not one but two decks lay side by side on the cabinet, and Gwyn was behind them now, headphones hanging off her ears.

—This one’s for you, Mr. DJ, she called out.

She dropped the needle on the record, and Marilyn Monroe set out on a twisted version of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” breathily looping through the room on top of a squirmishing punk-dunked beat.

The music cranked up, fast mingling with something sitarishly familiar. Gwyn stood spinning, all her moves exaggerated: rolling her hands in the air, pursing her lips, swaggering her hips.

Karsh was watching her the whole while with eyes so soft they made mine close so I wouldn’t have to see them. The song got most of the way through and then Gwyn gave it over to Shailly, who started spinning some spy-movie-soundtrack-sounding sounds. And then Karsh went over to Gwyn and gave her a bear hug that left me cold all over. He was thanking her, and I stood choking the neck of my beer bottle, trying to breathe calm.

I wished Kavita would get here already; I hadn’t heard from her the past few days. Her presence was a reassuring one: She was the only person in the wide world who was somewhat onto my feelings, and she put pressure on me neither to run away nor towards them, rather, treated me as if my disrupted sentimental state were the most natural in the world.

—And you say they’re not together? Trilok (Jimmy) Singh remarked, watching the record-breaking embracers come out of their hug; Gwyn’s hands rested just above Karsh’s hips.—Certainly looks like it to me, yaar. You know, I’m starting to think Gwyn Sexton may actually be cooler than I thought—a guy like Karsh wouldn’t go out with just anyone. He’s on everyone’s most wanted list already at
NYU. Hell, it was hard enough for me to get my own woman to stop checking him out.

—Where is your girlfriend, anyways? I asked, swallowing hard on my Sam Adams.

—Well, we’re having probs at the mo, he said.

—What kind of problems?

—We broke up, actually.

—That can be a problem, I agreed.

—Religious differences, he nodded.

—What religion is she?

—Same, he said.—But she thinks I’m not religious enough, that I am too much of a party animal. She says I am Sikh in the head only.

—Sick in the head? I thought she was all into Sphinx and all.

—Now she claims she was humoring me.

I felt I related even though in my case the breakup was preceding the relationship.

—Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Jim—I said.—Tree.

—It’s all right, he shrugged, something he was prodigiously skilled at, as I recalled from HotPot.—It made me understand what I want and don’t want in a relationship. It made me realize what is truly important to me, the quality the woman I’m with must indisputably possess.

—Which is?

—She’s gotta be able to throw it down, yaar. Dance till the light of day.

He nodded towards my hands.

—Were you at a wedding or something? he said. The pattern was fading to pumpkin and I self-consciously closed them into fists, shaking my head.

Gwyn now stood beckoning everyone over to the buffet.

—Great tattoos, by the way! Maria Theresa Montana exclaimed,
nodding at Gwyn’s come-hither fingers.—Did you go clubbing or something?

But Gwyn wasn’t listening, was hithering away at Karsh to come join her.

We were now nearing the front of the food line. Karsh saw me coming and handed me a plate, I guess to pass down the line; I bestowed it upon Trilok, who slipped it to Maria Theresa Montana.

—So, did you help cook this up? Karsh whispered. I enjoyed the conspiratorial feeling we were briefly sharing.—That looks like your mom’s kind of style to me.

I was about to outlandishly take some credit when I saw the vast vat of chicken leering balefully from the other end of the table. I remembered my mother’s proclamation of warriorhood and wondered at it; it all looked too toothsome, unfortunately.

—Well…I said. Could I try it before confirming? Would just one little bite hurt? I was tempted, but having been warned by a bona fide Kshatriya, opted for a spatula serving of rice instead. But Gwyn, being that most suitable of girls, leapt between us, ladling Karsh’s plate full of the curried bird. He dished up a forkful and was lifting it to lip level when I had a vision of my mother’s penitent eyes and something came over me.

—Don’t eat that yet! I cried.

He froze, then glanced at me and nodded.

—You’re right, he said.—That was nearly very rude of me. Let’s have our mostest hostess take the first bite.

—Well, Karsh, Gwyn said slowly.—This
is
an authentic Indian meal. And in India the authentic way to eat is with your hands.

She started sleekening towards him.

—Wanna give me a taste? she asked now. Karsh looked a little embarrassed, but he reached into his plate and scooped up a fingerpinch. Gwyn leaned in.

Since when had eating with your hands turned so sexy? When I was little my mother would rush to place cutlery in my father’s dahl-soaked fingers if we were caught off guard by an unannounced visitor, including even the Girl Scout selling cookies.

My cry came too late. What had begun as Gwyn’s saucy attempt to lick up Karsh’s fingers fast degenerated into a coughing fit, a faceturning-fuchsia fit, and then a hand-fluttering-before-mouth all-out Munchian scream session.

—Water! Gwyn rasped, stumbling through her own private Kalahari to the cooler, out of which Franklyn Thomas Porter the Fourth’s glorious bottom was now protruding like a honey-stuck Pooh.

—What’s wrong? he yawped, emerging.—It looks like you’re on fire!

—I am on fire! This chicken is on fire! I—I must have screwed something up.

My mother. I should have known she’d be on my side—but I hadn’t realized how far
over
on it! I was ready to bet she’d switched around the spice proportions. Though I couldn’t really put money down with anyone here.

—Water won’t do it, said Karsh.—Sugar is what kills the fire. Do you have anything sweet out here?

—Oh no…Gwyn gasped, setting down the Evian and letting out a prenatal series of quick short exhalations.—I’ve gone and ruined everything now…and I wanted it to be just perfect for your birthday.

She looked about to cry. Or combust. That was the question.

—Forget the chicken, sweetie, said Karsh, wrapping an arm around her. I could see her miracle recovery; now I felt the fire.—This is a housecooling, remember? Isn’t that right, everybody?

A chorus of accord.

—Actually, she said.—I
do
have something sweet—I was saving it for later, but carp and dee ‘em.

She headed for the kitchen now, and Maria Theresa Montana was covering and then crossing the cauldron of killer chicken when the lights went out. Skitting flames floated into the room at chest level, on a just visible waxy sea, Gwyn’s face luminous above them, rendered even more beautiful by the flaxen light.

—Happy birthday to you…she began. And then everyone was crooning, myself included. Who could resist singing happy birthday, after all? As she came closer I could see that it was a huge ice cream cake she was carrying, and no ordinary one at that: It was in the shape of an LP, ridges cut into the fudge to look like true grooves, and
Hey Mr. DJ
frost-gunned in the center circle where the names of the songs would go.

She was standing just before Karsh now, their two faces illuminated in the cake halo.

—Make a wish, Karsh, she whispered in the sudden silence after the song. But I was already making mine; I didn’t know if it counted on someone else’s candles, but it was worth a try, and I wished that I would be part of his wish, long shot that that was. I must have been staring really hard, because he looked up at me a second and half-smiled just before he blew them out.

Applause, then someone flicked the lights back on. Gwyn plucked the candles from the cake, one by one, then cut the first slice.

Once everyone was ice creamed up she set her own plate down.

—People, may I have your attention please! she cried (a little unnecessarily, considering she’d had it for just short of forever by now).—I have a very special birthday present for a very special birthday boy. And it is one that will benefit all of us. Are you ready for this?

Nods through full melting mouths.

—So, I think all of you know by now that I was discovered recently by Serge Larmonsky of
Flash!
magazine, she began.—Anyways, what you don’t know is that I was invited in to the
Flash!
offices to meet the editor-in-chief, Elizabeth Lupine. And as it turned out, everyone was in the middle of trying to figure out where the hello to throw the end-of-summer launch party. Somewhere cutting edge. Somewhere attention getting. Somewhere
subversive.

I was getting excited in spite of myself: So she
had
put in a good word for me.

—So I turned to them all and I said,
Well, I know just the place for you, people,
Gwyn continued in a voice meant to raise suspense.—This place, well, talk about subversive—it’s all about subcultures. It’s like an undiscovered gem. Well—the Indians have discovered it, but other than that. It is
the
next big thing.

This was sounding unnervingly familiar.

—Where am I talking about? New York City’s leading melting pot music spot: HotPot!

Wha—?

—And who else to DJ it but—as Serge himself agrees—the most up-and-coming cutting-edge spinster in Manhattan, the hotter than HotPot one himself?

She turned spoonily to Karsh.

—So, Karsh, what would you say if I were to tell you you’d nabbed the gig of the year?

—What? said Karsh, looking stunned. Gwyn trained her eyes on him.

—It’ll score tons of PR for you, honey, by attracting a not-just-Indian crowd—and plus, we’re gonna have
Time Out
editors and
Village Voice
peeps and all types of industry folk there. You’ll get so much exposure you won’t know what to do with it!

Karsh was clearly overwhelmed. As was I. But, I had a feeling, for different reasons. Was it too late to copyright my vocal cords?

—Everyone was so impressed they actually put me in charge, she went on.—Zeb said she couldn’t believe my ability to spot and snag a new trend.

New trend! Bhangra had been around for years!

—But that’s what
I
said, I said.

—Then we all agree? Gwyn beamed.—Perfect.

Now everyone was clustering around Karsh, licking up the last of their ice cream and humdingering with excitement.

—How’d you become a DJ, if you don’t mind my asking? Betsy Glick inquired in a flustered voice that made it sound like she’d just run across town to get here.

—I started out doing parties, Karsh explained.—Mostly in New York.

—So you’re a New Yorker?

—Well, from India, technically, though I did live in London a little. I’d like to spend some more time there one day. That’s where it’s really happening—the Asian underground is so full-on it’s aboveground, from what I hear.

Betsy Glick and now Maria Theresa Montana were so rapt it was embarrassing.

—It’s a really exciting place, Karsh continued. He almost
had
to, the way they were just standing there gawking.—So many types of music are cultivated there, and if you go to a so-called Indian event, you won’t even necessarily find South Asians in the majority. There’s often such a mix the minority/majority distinction drops away—which is ideal, and the main reason I’m so grateful you’ve set up this gig for me, Gwynoo.

—Don’t mention it, she said.—I’ve always wanted to live in London, too.

—Yeah, it’s a real melting pot. Interracial relationships and friendships all over the place. At least from the glance I got.

—So…you’re into interracial relationships? said Gwyn.